Sam shrugged. “Maybe they were too weak, by that point. They used the bamboo and rigging to build a small platform.”
Kneeling beside the mummies, Remi said, “Weak and crippled. This one’s got a broken femur, a compound by the looks of it, and this one . . . See the indentation in the hip? That’s either dislocated or fractured. It’s awful. They just laid in there and waited to die.”
“It won’t be our fate,” Sam replied. “A fiery balloon crash, maybe, but not this.”
“Very funny.”
Remi stooped over and picked up one of the bamboo tubes. It was as big around as a baseball bat and five feet long. “Sam, there’s writing on this. It’s scratched into the surface.”
“Are you sure?” Sam looked over her shoulder. He was the first to recognize the language. “That’s Italian.”
“You’re right.” Remi ran her fingertips over the etched words while rotating the bamboo in her opposite hand. “This isn’t, though.” She pointed to a spot near the tip.
No taller than a half inch, a square grid framed four Asian symbols. “This can’t be,” Remi murmured. “Don’t you recognize them?”
“No, should I?”
“Sam, they’re the same four characters engraved on the lid of the Theurang chest.”
35
Sam opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. Remi said, “I know what you’re thinking. But I’m sure, Sam. I remember drinking tea and staring at these characters on Jack’s laptop screen.”
“I believe you. I just don’t see how-” Sam stopped and furrowed his eyebrows. “Unless . . . When we landed here, how far were we from the last set of coordinates?”
“Hosni said less than a kilometer.”
“Maybe a half mile from the path Dhakal would have taken on his journey. What if he died near here, or ran into trouble and lost the Theurang chest?”
Remi was nodding. “And then our balloonist friends come along centuries later. They crash-land here and find the box. When was the earliest manned balloon flight?”
“Just guessing . . . late sixteenth-early seventeenth century. But I’ve never heard of a dirigible from that period as advanced as this one. This would have been way ahead of its time.”
“Then at the earliest, it crashed here almost three hundred years after Dhakal left Mustang.”
“It’s plausible,” Sam admitted, “but hard to swallow.”
“Then explain these markings.”
“I can’t. You say they’re the Theurang curse, and I believe you. I’m just having trouble wrapping my brain around it all.”
“Join the club, Sam.”
“How’s your Italian?”
“A bit rusty, but I can give it a try later. Right now let’s concentrate on getting out of here.”
They devoted the morning to checking the guylines, setting aside those that looked too frayed or decayed; these Sam cut away with his Swiss Army knife. They repeated the process with the wicker-and-bamboo struts (all of which Remi checked for engravings but found none), then turned their attention to the silk. The biggest piece they found was only a few inches wide, so they decided to braid the usable fabric into cordage, should it be needed. By lunchtime, they had a respectable pile of construction materials.
For added stability, they decided to fasten eight of the dirigible’s balloon-cage struts to the interior of the dome. This job they accomplished in assembly-line fashion: Sam, using his knife’s awl, poked double holes in the canopy where each strut was to go followed by Remi inserting twelve-inch lengths of sinew thongs into the holes. Once done, they had three hundred twenty holes and one hundred sixty thongs.
By late afternoon Sam began cinching the thongs closed using a boom hitch. He’d secured almost a quarter of the thongs when they decided to call it a night.
They were up with the sun the next day and returned to the dirigible’s construction.
During the five hours of usable afternoon light they turned their attention to sewing closed the mouth of the parachute/balloon with strips of silk knotted around a barrel-sized ring Sam had fashioned from curved pieces of wicker.
After savoring a few crackers each, they retired to the gondola cave and settled down for what they knew would be a long night.
“How long until we’re ready?” Remi asked.
“With luck, we’ll have our basket ready by late morning tomorrow.”
As they labored, Sam had been working and reworking the engineering problem in the back of his mind. They had slowly been cannibalizing the gondola for firewood, which they used not only to cook but to occasionally warm themselves throughout the day and before going to bed at night.
As it stood, they had ten feet of gondola left. Based on Sam’s calculations, the remaining wicker combined with the chemical concoction he had in mind would be enough to get them aloft. Much less certain was whether they could ascend high enough to clear the ridgeline.
The one factor Sam was not worried about was wind. So far, what little they’d gotten had come from the north.
Remi voiced yet another concern, one that had also been nagging at Sam: “What about our landing?”
“I’m not going to lie. That could be our bridge too far. There’s no way to tell how well we’ll be able to control the descent. And we’ll have virtually no steering.”
“You have a Plan B, I’m guessing?”
“I do. Do you want to hear it?”
Remi was silent for a few moments. “No. Surprise me.”
Sam’s timetable estimate was close. It wasn’t until noon that they had the basket and risers completed. While “basket” was an overly optimistic word for their construction, they were nevertheless proud of it: a two-foot-wide bamboo platform bound together and secured to the risers by the last of the sinew.
They sat and ate lunch in silence, admiring their creation. The craft was rough-hewn, misshapen, and ugly-and they loved every inch of it.
“It needs a name,” Remi said.
Sam of course suggested
“I like it.”
The afternoon was spent implementing Sam’s scheme for a fuel source. Except for a three-foot section in which they would huddle that night, Sam used the wire saw to dismantle the remainder of the gondola, cutting away as he stood inside it and handing up chunks to Remi. They managed to lose only three pieces to the bowels of the crevasse.
Using a stone, Remi began grinding the wicker and the remaining sinew into a rough pulp, the first palmful of which Sam dropped into a bowl-shaped section of the Bell’s aluminum skin. To the pulp he added lichen they’d scraped from every stone and clear patch of granite they could find on the plateau. Next came dribbles of aviation fuel followed by dashes of gunpowder Sam had extracted from the pistol’s bullets. After thirty minutes of trial and error, Sam presented Remi with a crude briquette wrapped inside a swatch of silk.
“Do the honors,” he said, and handed Remi the lighter.
“Are you sure it won’t explode?”
“No, not at all sure.”
Remi gave him a withering stare.
He said, “It would have to be packed inside something solid.”
